


Fracture

by LogicalBookThief



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Romance, The one where everyone survives BoFA, but Bilbo loses his memories, except some rather unlucky orcs, so the orcs kinda deserved it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalBookThief/pseuds/LogicalBookThief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins remembers going to sleep at Bag End, untroubled by thoughts of battles, dragons, or gold. But after awakening in Rivendell with an aching head, a wizard at his bedside, and a strange ring in his pocket, Bilbo wonders just what he’s all forgotten, especially when a group of dwarves arrive at his door. If only he could recall their names, and why they seem so familiar…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Casualties of War

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So, um, this is my first (and definitely not last) post in the wonderful Hobbit fandom, so I hope you all enjoy! This is also my first post on AO3, so I'm still getting the hang of things; I'll be cross-posting this story to my fanfiction account, which is under the same name.
> 
> Now onto business. This is an AU to the Battle of Five Armies where *spoiler* Thorin, Fili and Kili don't die; instead, Bilbo loses his memories of the company and their adventure, due to that nasty blow to the head. The idea wouldn't leave me alone so I decided to go ahead and give it a try. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not and will never own anything related to The Hobbit. It belongs to the great and powerful J.R.R. Tolkien, and what doesn't belong to him belongs to Peter Jackson.

_**Fracture, n.** _

 

  _-the art of breaking; the state of being broken_  


**_._ **

Bilbo dreamt that he was standing at the foot of a volcano, watching the flames erupt from the top. Lava cascaded down the mountain slopes, inching towards him at an alarming pace. He paid it no mind, too entranced by the heat and fire to move a muscle, let alone run away. The light was so blindingly bright, so intensely hot that it seared his eyes and then there was pain _—a terrible, terrible pain bursting in his head—_

The nightmare ended as consciousness flooded back into the hobbit. Unfortunately, the pain did not recede with it. It stayed, and so did the light, though now it was more of a comfort than a bother. Bilbo let the sunlight roam over his sore and sleep-filled limbs, hoping the warmth would coax them into waking as well. Flexing his fingers, his right thumb brushed against something inside his pocket. Curious, as well as confused, Bilbo traced the outline of the bump with the same thumb, revealing it to be a ring. Odd. He didn't own any rings or carry them around in his pockets. _Wherever could I have acquired it?_ he wondered distantly.

Judging by the amount of light hitting his face, it must have been well into the morning by now. Deciding that lying in bed all day like a lazy hobbit was behavior unbefitting for his age, Bilbo's eyes fluttered open, expecting to see the familiar furnishings of his bedroom.

Had his head not been throbbing so, Bilbo might've startled at the sight of his surroundings. Oh, no, this was definitely _not_ Bag End, nor any room in which Bilbo had ever been before. Bag End did not boast such lovely linen sheets, intricately carved decor, or an old man who sat beside his bed. Once again, he ought to have jumped upon realizing that there was another person in the room, but due to his condition, Bilbo only regarded the man in puzzlement.

And what a peculiar old man he was! He wore grey-colored robes and a tall, pointed hat. His face appeared amicable enough, with bushy eyebrows and a long beard. But it was the ancient, depthless pair of eyes staring down at him so intently that garnered Bilbo's full attention. A hobbit like himself felt even smaller than usual caught within that gaze. Upon seeing him awake, however, the gaze softened somewhat and the old man's lips curved into a smile.

"Good morning," Bilbo greeted politely, albeit groggily. Let it never be said that his manners wavered, even with a terrible thrumming against his skull.

The old man smiled in a strange fashion, as if Bilbo was privy to some inside joke between the two of them.

"Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a good morning to be on?"* The long reply left Bilbo's head swimming. That was certainly a lengthy response to such a simple inquiry.

"All of them at once, I suppose." Immediately, the old man's smile faded into a frown. Apparently, Bilbo should've known better than to give such an answer. He considered apologizing for his mistake, yet dismissed the notion as ridiculous. After all, how was he supposed to know what to say when he'd never met this man before in his life?

Reading his thoughts, the old man asked, "Have you no idea who I am?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, I do not," Bilbo confirmed, and this time he was sorry, for the old man looked very disappointed.

"Come now, Bilbo, do you not recognize me? I am Gandalf!"

Mindful of his head, Bilbo sat up and peered more closely at this old man dressed in grey who claimed to be called Gandalf— _Gandalf the Grey, the wizard, the wanderer, the man both his grandfather and mother spoke of with fondness._

"Gandalf?" Bilbo repeated. "The friend of the Old Took who used to make such wondrous fireworks at celebrations? Yes, yes, I remember now! Oh, I've not seen nor heard from you since I was a lad! Er, not to sound rude, but what brings you to my bedside?"

Pleased with his remembrance, Bilbo settled back into bed with a sigh of contentment. Surely this Gandalf fellow would perk up now that he had it all squared. But, no, that wasn't the case at all. If anything, the old man—or wizard, rather—looked more dismayed than earlier.

"Oh, Bilbo," he murmured softly, as if something very near and dear to him had been lost. "Oh, my dear friend..."

"What is it?" said Bilbo, feeling the cold weight of dread shift into his gut. "Why do you speak so mournfully? Are my wounds more grievous than you thought?"

"You remember being wounded in battle?" Gandalf questioned.

"Well, no. Actually, the only indication I have is this horrid ache in my head," admitted the hobbit. Blinking owlishly, he added, "I'm sorry, did you say _battle?"_

"And a very grave battle it was," the wizard said solemnly, ignoring his incredulity. "Grave enough to gain you a room in the Last Homely House, at least."

"Good gracious!" Bilbo gasped, realizing where he was at last. "I am in Rivendell, the city of the elves! How on earth did I get here?"

Silence met his exclamation. The hobbit began to suspect that there was more to his situation than the wizard had told him thus far, and he was willing to bet that it was somehow connected to both his injured skull and his presence in an elven city. Not that he was complaining about the latter, as he'd always dreamt of visiting the elves. Seeing it now, it was even more breathtaking than he had imagined.

"Bilbo," Gandalf began finally, eyes narrowing into the hobbit with the utmost seriousness, "what do you last remember before awakening just now?"

To be honest, it took Bilbo quite a while to sort through the mess of his mind and locate this information.

"I, well...I was about to retire for the evening. It was a warm summer night, and I remember drifting off to sleep in my own bed." He closed his eyes, the smell of Bag End surrounding him, the soft cushion of his favorite chair underneath his legs. Yet when he opened his eyes, he was still in Rivendell conversing with a wizard, proving that this was no dream. Therefore, Bilbo decided it was high time he knew what was going on.

"Enough of this beating around the bush, Mister Gandalf. I can see that something is amiss, I can practically feel it in my bones. Now be honest with me, and tell me what has happened?" he demanded, too achy and perplexed and downright _tired_ to bother with courtesy any longer.

Gandalf regarded him with an expression that was partially sad, partially expectant. "I am afraid you won't enjoy what you want to hear, Mister Baggins."

"By the look on your face, I should say not." Bilbo took a deep breath and brushed his fingers against the ring in his pocket, its presence giving him unfounded courage. "Tell me, anyway."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After a week of recovery in Rivendell, under the kind care of Lord Elrond, Bilbo was finally well enough to return to the Shire. When he wasn't resting in bed, he spent the majority of his time in the library, or in the company of a human child named Estel, who was a very bright boy and a pleasure to talk to. When the day came for Gandalf and he to leave, Bilbo bid the boy a fond farewell, and profusely thanked Elrond for his hospitality. There was something eerily familiar about the Elf lord, something Bilbo just couldn't place.

Which Bilbo knew was because he had about a year's worth of memories missing from his mind, a fact he had been forced to come to terms with during this week of recovery.

Seeing Bag End again was a hearty relief, though. Because Bag End was precisely the same as he remembered, in spite the hoard of relatives gathered within it, all of whom were in the midst of auctioning his possessions off to the highest bidder. Many of them had a minor fright when they spotted him, thinking he was an angry spirit come for revenge. And oh, if Bilbo could eternally haunt that covetous Lobelia and her husband, he certainly would.

The nerve of those Sackville-Bagginses, moving into his humble home and claiming it as their own! Why, Bilbo had half a mind to write them out of the will entirely for that little stunt. After all, he had only been away for—

—oh. Well. According to Gandalf's account, Bilbo had been gone a great deal longer than he realized. No wonder his relatives had seen fit to start selling his possessions. Now that he was pronounced alive again, though, they all looked rightfully chastised for their conduct (barring the Sackville-Bagginses, of course). Soon, however, everyone grew accustomed to the fact that Mister Baggins was back in his hobbit hole, and life in the Shire went on exactly the same as it always had.

Except that it didn't. Not in Bilbo's case, at least. Because Bilbo wasn't the same hobbit he used to be. He was different, and he didn't know when or how the change had occurred. Outwardly, he still looked like a middle-aged hobbit, despite the new, unfamiliar scars embedded into his skin. For the most part, he still acted as he did before, too. The changes about him were subtle and hard to spot.

In an effort to understand the hobbit he had become, Bilbo took to examining the items he'd returned from Rivendell with; the items Gandalf claimed were now his (Besides the ring, of course, which Gandalf seemed to know nothing about. Bilbo could have asked him about it, but something stopped him from doing so). And the most absurd of these items was a _sword._

Bungo Baggins would be rolling in his grave at the sight of his son wielding such a weapon inside his beloved home. But Bilbo was too focused to feel remorse over bothering the dead, so he went ahead and wrapped his hand around the hilt, surprised at how light the sword was. Or how it felt like the blade belonged clenched between his fingers, aimed at some fiendish foe. He brandished it around his living room, swiping and striking at imaginary adversaries, feeling very much like a lad as he did so. However, he did it with the proper stances, and a steadiness that was born out of practice, not play.

Afterwards, Bilbo put the sword in a proper place above the mantel. Even if it was of no use in the peaceful Shire, it was a lovely piece of Elvish craftsmanship, which was more than enough reason to display it proudly. The only other item was a white shirt a little too large for his size, which Bilbo admired for a long time before storing it away in one of his wardrobes.

Nevertheless, it was the changes in his behavior that stood out most vividly to the master of Bag End.

One day while he was perusing the market for a new book to add to his collection, there came a terrible commotion from a few feet away. A cart had come loose and was barreling down the road, right into the path of a young hobbit lass, who would have no time to scream or run as the cart came tumbling towards her—

And without thinking, Bilbo dropped the book he'd been browsing and dashed over faster that he thought possible. The cart was nearly upon her when Bilbo leapt over—staying in front of her, in case his speed failed—and crushed her small body against his before rolling them to safety. In reality, the rescue happened in one, swift moment filled with only the shouts and awes of the market bystanders.

Then Aunt Mirabella was suddenly there, alternating between hugging (and scolding) her inattentive daughter and thanking Bilbo with all her might. That's when Bilbo discovered that the child he'd saved was his cousin Primula Brandybuck, who also proceeded to thank him, large blue eyes shimmering gratefully from behind her dark curls. Other hobbits came and patted him on the back, as surprised by his brave endeavor as they were impressed.

They hailed him as a hero for the deed, although Bilbo was simply glad that little Primula came out of the incident unscathed. Saving her had seemed so natural a reaction, risking his own life to rescue another. When had these instincts taken hold? Eru, he wished he knew.

Bilbo never let it show, but he went about his daily routine feeling as though his life was utterly, fundamentally _wrong._ Some days, he went from room to room, pretending to tidy up when actually he was looking for something _—anything—_ that might make sense, something that might ease the terrible void that had carved itself into the center of his heart. He would sit outside in the evenings and smoke his pipe, staring out at the horizon and wondering what lay beyond it, and pondering why he so badly yearned for whatever it was.

Sometimes, he thought that this something might be a _someone,_ or several _someones._ At night, he would awake with a name on the tip of his tongue, wanting to yell it into the dark night, hoping to hear another voice call back. Sadly, the name would always disappear before he could grasp it, leaving him with an emptiness not even breakfast could fill.

Maybe what bothered him most was that while he felt like he was missing people who were such a vital part of his life, none of these persons ever came looking for him, even though their minds were presumably intact. Thinking about this always disheartened Bilbo; for if he wasn't someone worth searching for, perhaps he had become someone terrible during those lost days...

But Bilbo strived to keep these awful ideas and emotions hidden from sight. He wasn't comfortable sharing such personal aspects of his life with his family, since they weren't very close; nor did he really have any friends to confide in. Furthermore, the hobbits of the Shire already considered him queer ever since his return from places unknown. If he let slip that he was having adventurous urges again, the title 'Mad Baggins' would surely stick.

So the dreary days bled into weary weeks, which eventually formed months. Life went on, and if the solitude that Bilbo had once enjoyed now felt lonely, his neighbors and relatives were none-the-wiser. Because Bilbo Baggins was a respectable hobbit, as far as he remembered, and that meant acting as any respectable hobbit should. Therefore, he spent his days eating, reading, smoking his pipe and other activities that were heartily approved of by his kin.

And if every night he dreamt of songs about mountains that reached the sky, riddles in the dark, dragons or piles of glistening gold, what did it matter? Bilbo could not see the significance in them, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I borrowed this line directly from the book.
> 
> So...Good? Bad? Worth continuing? Tell me what you think down below! Reviews are very much appreciated!


	2. Against All Odds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the king and heirs of Erebor evade death, the company searches for Bilbo, and Thorin (majestically) angsts. A lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait! This chapter took me a while to write. I'm still not sure about the finished product, so some thoughts and comments would be much appreciated. All the reviews and kudos I received for the first chapter were very kind and encouraging. Thank you and please keep it up! (:
> 
> Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkein and Peter Jackson own; I do not.

The deafening roar of battle dimmed around Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain, as he struggled to breathe through the spear lodged in his chest.

His world was rippling, unraveling at the seams, swaying like a tumultuous sea waving to and fro, pushing him towards the grand halls of Mahal. Serenity reigned over this sea, calming the spirit of the dwarf king. But the promise of eternal peace shattered at the touch of firm ground against his back; Thorin's eyes snapped open, blearily, to a world at war.

"Laddie, are you with us?"

He knew this voice, the one who spoke. He had known it since childhood, since he had been only a dwarfling upon his mother's lap, where her voice would lull him and his siblings to sleep. Thorin could hear it now, soft and soothing, tugging him back into the comfortable darkness he had just barely escaped.

 _"Thorin!"_ the voice persisted, so he forced his eyes open, wondering when they had closed. Above him hovered a face, and when he saw it, Thorin finally remembered who it belonged to. Of course, it would be Balin, who had been loyal to three generations of Durin, that stood beside his dying king.

Dying, yes, he was dying. Whether by wound or grief, Thorin did not know. For right before he fell, he had seen his dear sister sons, Fili and Kili—the lads he had fed and clothed and raised—lying lifeless upon the battlefield. Seeing those once small, innocent faces tainted by death and blood was a punishment Thorin supposed he deserved. He had led them to their demise, after all, and he cursed himself for it.

Balin kept speaking, urging him to remain in this world, but there were not enough words in their tongue to keep his broken body bound to their beloved mountain. Conscience, rational, and even memories were fleeing from his mind, leaving a muddled mess of fragments behind. Thorin was not simply dying, but being bled dry, every happy thought and feeling he'd ever had slowly draining away. He fought to save them, to rescue those that were most precious to him: his mother's singing; his father teaching him how to hold a sword; his grandfather's firm hand upon his shoulder; Frerin's final smile; Dis' triumphant glare when she beat him in a spar; Fili and Kili's boisterous laughter; the Company and their shared adventure—

Not once did he think of gold.

Instead, he thought of a hole in a ground he'd left in the far West. The creature he met there had been a polite but fussy hobbit, whose fear had given way to courage and whose gentleness had become strength in the course of their journey. Thorin's own feelings about the creature had changed, too, from annoyance to exasperation to gratitude to friendship, and finally, something even softer.

Abruptly, Thorin's body lurched; death throes, perhaps, or perhaps it was the longing ache that erupted in his chest when he recalled that small, infuriating creature's name. Deliriously, he hoped that if he called it out (as he had done before in many variations of fondness, anger, or passion), then maybe the hobbit would appear. Throat weak and trembling, Thorin fumbled for the name he had known just a moment ago, the name of the hobbit he had wronged, the hobbit whom he lov—

 _"Bilbo,"_ he gasped, straining to say the single word. A metallic taste spread through his mouth, a trickle of warm leaked past his lips. Thorin ignored it for the sake of making Balin had understand—they had to find hobbit before it was too late to say what needed to be said.

Balin might have nodded, might have whispered words of comfort or promise. That was what you said to warriors lying on their deathbeds, decorated by praises of valor and bravery. But Thorin did not feel brave. Bravery was not the word for the sickness that had taken hold of him and made him willing to fight for a hall full of glittering jewels. Bravery was stealing the heart of the mountain, knowing it would gain you the wrath of a maddened king, yet still doing it because you were desperate and determined to avoid battle and save the lives of your friends. It was a shame that Thorin came to this conclusion, here, when the mistakes that had led to this moment were already long past.

And now he would be the richest king _buried_ beneath the mountain.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Unknown lands of death and darkness welcomed Thorin with open arms, while the world of light and life bade his return. Caught between the warring sides, the dwarf king hovered in a state of perpetual sleep, a purgatory for men who belonged in neither realm. So long was he asleep that Thorin hardly knew where he was when he finally awoke.

Not the afterlife, he reasoned as consciousness slowly returned; and with it, came pain. If this were the afterlife, his body would not feel like it had been torn in half and then stitched back together. Each low, laborious breath he took stretched the spots where skin met stitch, the sensation of itch mingling with ache. Never mind the pain, though. How was he even _alive?_

"He is awake," gasped a nearby voice, sounding nearly as surprised as Thorin felt. "'Bout ruddy time," another voice grunted, its familiar baritone shooting a spike of warmth through the numbness of Thorin's body.

"Dwalin?" he croaked, his voice dry with disuse.

"Aye," the warrior nodded, although Thorin did not see the motion. Long, calloused fingers loosely gripped his shoulder and squeezed once in affirmance.

"Welcome back, lad," the voice from before spoke with a small, tired smile.

"Balin," the king coughed, wincing at how the mere act of speaking taxed his throat.

Knowingly, the older dwarf reproved, "No more of that, now. Save your strength. You're not out of the frying pain just yet."

Predictably, Thorin paid no heed. There were too many questions to be asked, too many worries haunting his recently revived mind. In the short time he'd been dead, the son of Durin had forgotten how much effort life truly entailed.

"Fili and Kili," he rasped, grimacing at the memory of their bodies splayed out on the ground, covered in dirt and blood. Regardless, he had to know. "Before I fell, I saw them. I saw them pale and wasted by orc blades."

A hand touched his chest, cool in comparison to his feverish skin. "No, Thorin. Your nephews live, although it was a close thing. Thank Aulë for the mithril armor hiding beneath their clothes."

Overwhelming relief washed over Thorin, which he released in a deep, stuttering sight. I did not kill them, he absolved, feeling a hundred pounds lighter at this revelation. With the fate of his sister sons known, the king wondered what had become of the remainder of their company, and asked as much aloud.

"They survived, too, if not a bit bloody and bruised," Dwalin assured. Thorin was about to reply when a coughing fit struck, tearing the breath right out of lungs. The hand left his chest and was replaced with a cup at his lips, filled with blessedly cold water. The liquid soothed his raw throat, quenching a mighty thirst the king had not even noticed up until that point. Finally, the coughs subsided, and the words Thorin had previously intended on saying came out in a ragged, stuttering rasp,

"A-And the hobbit?"

Both brothers froze at mention of their burglar. Thorin hardly noticed, brow furrowed in concentration. "I believe I asked before, but I cannot be sure."

"You did," confirmed Balin. Haltingly, he added, "We have not found him yet."

Thorin's body sagged in disappointment, wishing that Bilbo was at his side. He would trade all the golden goblets in Thror's magnificent hall if it meant he could have one last word with his beloved, so he could apologize and perhaps receive the forgives he greatly desired but probably did not deserve.

Mistaking his despair for weariness, the older dwarf patted his chest and said, "Rest now, laddie. You've earned it. The dragon is slain, the battle for Erebor is won."

 _If that is the case, why do I feel like I have lost?_ Thorin pondered silently. But in truth, he was incredibly tired, even after being trapped in the dark for what seemed like an eternity. Soon enough, the king fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thin yellow light slipped through the top of the tent, illuminating the world in the pleasant glow of the sun. It was difficult to believe that a phenomena as simple and as sunlight could still occur after everything that had happened. How could the world ever be the same after witnessing such bloodshed? How the could time keep going without fail, the hours tick by without fault, when the battle had ended only days ago?

How could the world be recovered already, when Thorin still lie bound to a sickbed, unable to move lest he injure himself further? He had tried to arise once before, sometimes after his third awakening, to prove that he—all he succeeded in doing was tearing his stitches and turning the dull throb in his shoulder into full-blown ache.

Oin emitted a number of colorful curses while he stitched Thorin back together again, lecturing him on the importance of adhering to the healers' advice, stubborn pride be damned. At Thorin's poorly hidden winces, however, the hearing-impaired dwarf took pity on the king and gave him a generous dose of poppy seed milk. Sufficiently tanked, he dozed until Oin sent his brother to forced an awful tasting broth down his throat.

With nothing else to do but sleep, sip, and sulk, Thorin was at the mercy of an idle mind. In the moments spent in solitude between the break of dawn and the last restless hours of the night, the king pondered how the mountain was faring while its leader was on the mend, and even more frequently did he think about its heirs.

True, his sister sons had survived—Kili with a broken wrist, four cracked ribs, and a nasty cut that went from the bottom of his knee to the tip of his ankle. Despite this list, the young dwarf was in good health, which was more than could be said for his brother.

Although he sustained injuries that were even less severe, Fili had not yet awoken. Even Oin admitted that the exact cause of his coma was difficult to pinpoint, and it was anyone's guess as to when or if the fair-haired dwarf might see sunlight again. It was a bitter pill to swallow after the joy of learning that Fili had survived, yet Thorin was a fool for wanting to believe that the prince had escaped unscathed.

Perhaps the most heartbreaking thing was Kili's constant vigil beside his brother—Kili, who as a child could never stay still for more than a few moments, not without a great amount of whining or complaint, stayed by his Fili's side day in and day out, refusing to acknowledge the somber looks shared between the healers that tended to his brother. Thorin truly feared for his youngest nephew should Fili never revive. After relying on one another for nearly their entire lives, it was quite possible that neither knew how to live without the other.

Still, Kili kept smiling and insisting that his brother would pull through, as though saying it aloud would somehow harden his own belief. When he could be dragged away from Fili's side for food and water, the prince went to visit his uncle, whom he always regarded warmly. It seemed that his nephew blamed Thorin for his brother's condition no more than the rest of the company, even if the king himself felt entitled to a bit of ill-will.

Instead, Kili would fill the silence of his tent with mindless chatter, never lingering on a single topic for too long, lest the reality of their situation come crashing down on them. Listening to his nephew talk nonsense was a welcome reprieve from the usual thoughts that plagued Thorin's mind, until his nephew would stay towards the topic of his brother.

"He's looking better every day, Uncle. I can tell. No doubt he'll wake soon. Just you wait and see."

Wherefore Thorin would nod in concurrence, too soft-hearted (when it came to his family) to disagree. Yet as the days passed, Fili showed no sign of improvement. Watching Kili's optimism waste away, seeing his smile become a little more forced with each visit, was a dreadful thing to observe. No matter how bleak it seemed, though, he knew with absolute certainty that Kili would never give up hope, not so long as his brother continued to draw breath.

Absurdly, Thorin's mind drifted towards brighter days, when his nephew had been but boys playing with pretend, wooden swords. One fond memory in particular involved something Fili had said on the day of his brother's birth. Thorin remembered more about his nephew's early years than the lad did himself, and from the day Dis told him that he was going to have a little brother or sister, the dwarfling had done nothing but ask, "Is the baby here _yet?"_

This went on for months and months until the day Dis finally went into labor. Fili had been unbearable in his excitement, although Thorin had secretly been more endeared than annoyed. And when the time came for Fili to be introduced to the newly born Kili, he had smiled and caressed his brother's head with an instinctive gentleness, saying, _"Silly baby. You kept me waiting."_

Ironically, it was now Fili who kept Kili waiting, with the belief that Fili would come back to them. And maybe that was for the best. If nothing else, the journey to Erebor had taught the dwarf king to have faith in the unexpected, because sometimes faith had its own rewards.

Unbidden, the thoughts of Bilbo returned. The hobbit had yet to be seen, and Thorin's own doubts were beginning to take their toll. He willed himself to believe in the hobbit with the same confidence that Kili possessed. Bilbo had done nothing but defy expectations since the day he'd stepped out his front door. Surely defying death would be no trouble at all.

Sleep claimed Thorin swiftly that night. He dreamt of his hobbit arriving like a thief in the night, stealing what was left of the king's heart, and disappearing again before first light.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dwarves, elves, and men had reigned victorious over the Battle of Five Armies, a victory they attained with the help of the eagles and Beorn the Bearman. All of whom would be rewarded handsomely, Thorin vowed, especially after hearing that it had been Beorn who carried his limp, bleeding body to safety during the fray.

Bard had been given the share of gold owed to him and Dale, which Thorin, no longer under the thrall of gold lust, agreed was for the best. After all, what was a small portion of gold in comparison to an entire hall of treasure? With his mind clear from the sickness that had previously clouded his judgment, Thorin was appalled by his actions, especially in regards to their burglar.

His heart ached to know where the hobbit was. Had received the summons of the dying king, or simply refused to answer them? Thorin would not blame him if that was the case.

Furthermore, the elves, too, would receive compensation for their losses. Despite his deep misgivings towards Thraunduil, the Elven King had fought and lost many of his kin while fighting alongside the dwarvish warriors. This aid could not go unrewarded, no matter much the dwarf king resented it.

Ori the scribe explained these happenings to king, as he'd been the one to record them, with Gloin (who came to check on Thorin's condition and then report his findings to his brother) adding his bit here and there. The young dwarf stopped speaking when a familiar head poked inside the tent. By Aulë, Thorin never thought he'd be so happy to see that dratted hat atop Bofur's head. The toymaker and his cousin, Bifur, respectively requested entrance.

"Come in, my friends," Thorin obliged. "What news do you bring?" asked he, although he already had an inkling. Cold sweat dripped down his neck in anticipation.

Bofur bravely stepped forward, silent as stone. The silence was all too telling, for even when their travels were full of peril, Bofur had always been the first to speak or joke in an effort to raise the spirits of their company. To see him so willingly quiet was unnerving and did not bode well for the king was about to hear.

"We bring news of Bilbo Baggins, sire," the toymaker began. "Balin told us you desired to see him, and so we have scoured the battlefield these last few days." His face crumpled in a way that suggested _he_ had done most of this searching and the results had not been pleasant.

"Yet we could not find him. Either he is gone or..." Bofur choked on the last bit of words, looking away. His cousin placed a strong, solid hand on his shoulder.

"...carried away with the rest of the dead," Bifur finished solemnly. Thorin's breath hitched, as if a crushing pile of stones had landed on his abdomen. The pressure only increased when the reality of that horrible statement sunk in.

Gloin bowed his head in both sadness and respect, mumbling a prayer in Khuzdul under his breath, which Thorin was grateful for. If his own throat wasn't so tight and devoid of air, he might have done the same. A vision of their burglar, impossibly small in death, entombed in a nameless grave flashed before his eyes. Thorin felt ill, yet too empty to unleash the contents of his stomach, like losing Bilbo had hollowed out everything inside and left a husk of skin and bone behind.

"But we will keep looking," said Bofur suddenly, having pulled himself together. "Bilbo is a member of our company, and more than that, our friend. If there a sign of him to be found, we will have it found, sire." Mutely, Bifur jerked his head in assent. Even little Ori looked eager to help. Thorin felt a swell of fondness for his fellows then, and it eased some of the dreadful weight off his chest.

"Thank you, my friends. Your words mean much," he said kindly, marveling at the unfailing loyalty of his company. That was when it struck Thorin that Bilbo was not the only company member unaccounted for, and from this realization sprung hope. "And what of the wizard?" he asked abruptly.

Ori blinked in confusion. "Mister Gandalf, sire? N-No one has seen him since after the battle."

Thorin nodded, unsure of why he had asked in the first place. Knowing that Gandalf was nowhere to be found, coupled with the knowledge that he would never leave The Lonely Mountain without Bilbo Baggins at his side, unless the hobbit was truly lost forever gave him no peace of mind.

"Leave me," he ordered without any real infliction, and they all obeyed. Thorin spent the rest of the night in isolation, staring at the top of his tent with unseeing eyes, wondering what worth there was in living when your heart was already lost.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the eleventh day after the battle, Fili awoke.

Whether by the grace of Aulë or some unlikely miracle, Fili's eyes fluttered open early in the morn, while the sun rose over the horizon. When the first ray of golden light touched his sensitive pupils, the prince hissed, releasing an involuntary moan. The sound startled his brother awake, and soon there was telling where either brother began or ended, for Kili had enveloped his brother in a embrace and refused to let go. Anyone who tried to intervene in their reunion were quickly deterred by the sight of the healer who had attempted to separate the pair to examine the newly revived heir. Needless to say, the healer was sent to Oin to repair his broken nose, who would then see to Fili once he and Kili had calmed.

With permission to finally leave his tent, Thorin went to visit the boys that very day, if only to bask in the fact that his remaining family were truly alive and well. It was then that Thorin realized how blessed the Line of Durin had emerged from the Battle of Five Armies, for deep within his heart he knew that it could have been much, much worse.

Against all odds, Thorin and his nephews had survived, even when all of them had sustained potentially fatal injuries. And if that was _with_ the assistance of the men and elves, how would they have fared otherwise? Much as the dwarf king hated to admit it, he was grateful to have been allied with Thraunduil and Bard. If their armies had not banned together, if they had continued to fight for the ownership of gold, Erebor might be without its king and heirs, and many of its loyal subjects.

And there a small, thieving hobbit they had to thank for that.

Unfortunately, Bilbo Baggins was nowhere to be found.

Days fled, wounds healed, yet the absence of his burglar was a constant reminder of what had been lost. If it were possible, Thorin would have gladly given the entire chamber of treasure to have the hobbit at his side. If he were any other dwarf, he would have spent the rest of life searching for his beloved, even if that meant traveling to ends of Middle Earth and back again.

But Thorin was born and raised with the weight of a crown upon his head, and that meant his first duty was to his people, matters of the heart be damned. His people had suffered and wandered for far too long. It was time he took his rightful place on the throne and led them home. The Lonely Mountain would be empty and lifeless no more; even if that meant letting go of his most prized and precious treasure.

At long last, Thorin pronounced Bilbo Baggins dead, and celared that the searches must end. Most of the company were too disheartened themselves to argue at this point; all except for his young nephews, who reacted to this decree with the expected vehemence.

"How can you?" Kili yelled, angry tears budding in the corner of his eyes. "How can you give up so easily? He was our friend! He was your—"

"Enough, lads," Dwalin's growl echoed over the room and silenced them both. Giving Fili his sword and Kili his bow, he led them towards the door. "Go. Put your frustration to better use."

Reluctantly, they followed. Always the less outspoken of his nephews, Fili glanced back only once, his eyes silently accusing. The fierce look in those eyes stung more than any words Kili could have raged, and it took all of Thorin's almighty willpower not to wince under their glare.

"They should know better than to be so brash," Balin murmured after they had gone.

"They are upset," Thorin defended listlessly, running a weary hand over his face. "They have every right to be."

Balin's eyes flickered to him question. "And you, my king? Do you not feel pain as keenly as the rest of us? Do you not suffer as any dwarf would at the loss of his—"

"Of course I do," Thorin quietly interrupted. "But a king must be strong for his people, and so I will suffer in silence. You might disagree, and that is your right, yet it will not change my mind on the matter. Now, if you will leave me, I wish to mourn in peace."

"Fine. I will not tell you how foolish I think you are being." Lips pursed, Balin complied, bowing once before walking towards the door. Over his shoulder, he said, "If Bilbo were here, though, he would."

With that, the old dwarf departed, to leave the King Under the Mountain alone in his grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it. U'betaed since I plan on going to sleep as soon as I finish this, so I might come back and revise if the mistakes are too bad. I actually split this monster chapter into two, and the second part should be up very soon, considering part of it is already written. As always, I hoped you enjoyed!


	3. Pursuit of the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf brings wonderful news (for once), a king's heart is mended, and another unexpected journey begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait once again, fair readers! I would have had this posted much sooner. Unfortunately, a relentless week of schoolwork prevented me from doing so. Anyway, here it is, and I hope you all enjoy! As always, reviews and kudos and everything else are very much appreciated! Thank for all the support I've gained thus far!
> 
> Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkein and Peter Jackson own; I do not.

Five months after the Battle of Five Armies, Erebor was in better shape than it had been five months beforehand, if only slightly. Rebuilding the city and clearing away the wreckage caused by Samug was still first priority, for with every new caravan that arrived, the number of dwarves who needed a home grew. Yet the king turned none of them away, not when his people had been homeless for so long. Finally, they had a place where they belonged, and every dwarf with the strength to work was more than willing to do his or her share.

Feeding his kin was Thorin's next greatest problem. Bard and he had already conceded to the fact they would have to rely on each other if they wished to survive, and thus an alliance was formed. Bard's men knew the earth and how to sow its fields, so they would farm and share their bounties with the dwarves; in turn, the dwarves would assist the men in resurrecting the long-dead city of Dale.

Life continued on like that, in a daily mantra of decisions and duty and meetings, until one unexpected morning when the king was interrupted by a guard whose job it was to guard the western wall.

"Your majesty," the messenger said breathlessly, collapsing to his knees before the throne. "My sincerest apologies, I bring urgent news! Gandalf the Grey appears at the gate, wishing to have council with you!"

"Gandalf?" Fili repeated, the high pitch of his voice nudging Kili awake (the lad found meetings about agricultural progress incredibly dull, especially this early, and much preferred a good spar to a good debate. His brother whole-heartedly agreed; as heir to the throne, though, his preference could not be so obvious).

"What brings him here, I wonder?" said Balin contemplatively.

"Allow him entrance," Thorin dismissed, sending the messenger into a sprint.

The minutes ticked by anxiously, even though Gandalf arrived in no time flat. His beard was long and grey as ever, and his hat still as pointy as Thorin recalled. Nothing about his appearance had changed since Thorin had met him, on a day that seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Hello, Gandalf." Balin's warm greeting brought Thorin back to the present. "I am pleased to see you are well. What brings you back to Erebor?"

"I come bearing news for the king," the wizard replied importantly, depthless gaze locking onto the royal in question. "If he is interested in hearing it."

"Tell me whatever you like, Gandalf, but I doubt it will hold my interest," Thorin answered airily. And that he believed with all his heart.

Gandalf's stare seemed to say _Oh, I beg to differ._ "I have come to tell you that Bilbo Baggins lives," said the wizard, his loud, booming voice echoing throughout the hall. The breath in Thorin's throat seized.

After countless nights of no sleep for fear of dreams both sweet and terrible, Thorin had forced his mind to forget that name, had tried with all his might to move on, for his people's sake. Hearing it now was like a blow to stomach, because the king had already exorcised those ghosts and laid them to rest. Only to discover that there was no need, that Bilbo was alive? His brave hobbit, who he had resigned to never seeing again in this world, _lived?_

"Bilbo's alive?" Kili croaked. _"How?_ Where?! We searched and searched after the battle, but there was no sign of him among the living or the dead."

"That is because I took him to Rivendell posthaste, with the aid of a rather generous eagle," the wizard explained.

"Why could he not have been treated here with the rest of the wounded?" queried Thorin, reclaiming his voice at last.

Gandalf leveled them with a grave look, daring the king and his court to question his judgment. "In the state I found him, there was no telling if he was bound for this life or the next. He needed a healer of the highest ability if he was to survive the night. I kept him in this world until we reached The Last Homely House, where Lord Elrond stabilized his injuries. It was many nights before he awoke, but he did, and his life endured for every day afterwards. Hobbits are made of more hearty stuff than even I realized, it seems."

Swallowing back a retort about how his healers were plenty capable and would have served as well as any elf, Thorin opened his mouth to inquire further, when an eager Fili beat him to it.

"Is he well?" asked the oldest prince concernedly. 

At this, Gandalf graced the dwarves with a smile. "When I left him, he was back in his comfortable hobbit-hole, safe and sound," he assured, and they were undoubtedly the most beautiful words that had ever reached Thorin's ears.

He had no words as beautiful to offer Gandalf in return, yet tried to convey his gratitude nonetheless. "Thank you, Gandalf," he said past the painful lump in his throat. "Truly."

The wizard's lips curled in that all-knowing, slightly infuriating way. "Despite the terms you and Bilbo parted on, I thought it best you know, rather than let you mourn his loss," he said kindly.

"Aye," the king replied slowly. After a moment's pause, he shook away his trance. "Is that all you have to relay?"

"Indeed, it is." Gandalf nodded. "I shall take my leave, then."

"Won't you stay the night to recuperate your strength?" offered Balin.

"Alas, I am afraid I have other business to attend to. Thank you, though," the wizard declined, giving the room at large a curt bow. "Good day, Thorin Oakenshield and company."

Then he spun around and left as quickly as he had come, making Thorin ponder whether he had actually been there at all. Had these last few, inexplicably wonderful moments of his life been a concoction of a grief-addled mind? Had madness finally claimed him as it had his father?

"He lives, Uncle," the words, so joyously spoken, tore Thorin from his musings. He looked up to see Kili and Fili gazing at him with wide, jubilant grins. "Bilbo lives!"

_Not a delusion, after all._

"We must go tell—" Kili began, nearly out the door before Fili caught him by the hood of his cloak, dragging him backwards. Although he shared his brother's excitement, Fili was the less impulsive of the pair, and knew that their retreat could not be so hasty.

"Unless council is still in session?" he asked his uncle, as Kili attempted to ineffectually scramble away. Balin chuckled at the sight they made, while Thorin shook his head in amusement.

"How can anyone continue a council with your brother snores filling the room? Go," he ordered his nephews, the youngest of whom had turned pink, with the first sincere smile to touch his lips in a fortnight, "Give our companions the good news."

Grinning, Fili released his hold and ran ahead of his brother, who was busy trying to catch his balance. When he realized what had occurred, Kili leapt after him, shouting accusations of unfairness along the way. Balin's laughter carried over their retreating footsteps, the princes' good mood infectious.

"I never thought," the older dwarf started, before shaking his head, clearly at a loss. "I confess, I thought it impossible for him to be alive, what with the evidence piled against it... I have never been quite so happy to be wrong."

"Nor I," said Thorin with a small smile. _So you've defied expectations again, my little hobbit,_ he mused. _And even though you are far, you still draw breath. For now, that is enough..._

That night, the King of Erebor slept soundly, no longer plagued by the nightmares that once haunted the dark corners of his mind.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A pile of scrolls rivaling the Lonely Mountain in height stood atop the desk in his study, causing Thorin no small amount of anguish. However, he was never one to procrastinate or avoid work, even if this particular mound of parchment left something to be desired. Still, it was hard to focus on much of anything when he could plainly hear his nephews shuffling around the room like a pair of bumbling burglars, although Thorin diligently did his best to ignore it.

There was a rustle of movement and then a startling crash, followed by a faint curse; finally, the king relinquished all hope of finishing his work, and loudly cleared his throat. Fili and Kili stiffened attentively, red-handed and caught.

"May I help the two of you?" he sighed, feeling a headache the size of Thraunduil's moose approaching.

"How did you notice us?" asked the younger prince, genuinely surprised.

Thorin scoffed, "Brave warriors you may be, but sneaky you are not. Now, I repeat, may I help the two of you?"

"Uncle, we are wounded!" cried Kili. "We are not here because we _want_ something. We are here to inform you of a great injustice."

"Oh?"

Fili nodded, emulating his brother's smirk. "You see, Uncle, it has come to our attention that Bilbo left Erebor so hastily that he never received his share of the treasure."

"And in the terms of the contract, he was to be awarded a full fourteenth of the gold," Kili pointed out.

"It would be unseemly, nay, _dishonorable_ if we denied him his promised share."

"Tis signed by the king himself, after all."

In spite of their poor acting skills, Thorin chuckled at their combined cleverness. "Off with you," he waved, returning to his work. He knew they would argue, persistent brats that they were, so without looking back, he casually threw out, "Didn't I hear your mother calling just a moment ago?"

Both brothers blanched. Dis had arrived some time ago, in the first caravan from the Blue Mountains, very displeased to discover all that her sons had been up to in her absence. As livid as she was with her brother as well, at least Thorin could hide behind his kingly duties and such. His sister sons had no shield or escape from Dis' maternal wrath. Desperate to avoid their mother's ire, the princes scurried from the room faster than a sleigh of rhosgobel rabbits.

Sometime later, Balin came to collect the scrolls Thorin was supposed to have read; he had, of course, as worn as the task left him. The older dwarf acknowledged the king's undignified state with a knowing laugh, drawing an indignant huff from Thorin. All thoughts of blasted parchment fled when Balin mentioned hearing about Fili and Kili's numerous attempts to persuade him into visiting Bag End.

"Despite your nephews' playful approach, I believe they were quite serious about paying Mister Baggins his dues," commented the king's trusted advisor. "I know traveling West has crossed your mind before. With Erebor on the mend, why not go and make your peace?"

"Would it make a difference if I did?" asked Thorin honestly, slumping in his seat. "After all that I've done, would he accept my apology? Even if by some miracle he did, I am no longer worthy of his affections."

"And you never will be," Balin stated bluntly, causing the king to flinch. His advisor then softened, "Not unless you first make amends."

Hope blossomed in the king's chest, if only for a fleeting moment. "Do you believe he would forgive me?" he asked forlornly, knowing that if it was he who had been wronged, he would not be quick to forgive.

"Hobbits do not seem the type to hold grudges," Balin countered gently. "If I were Mister Baggins, I might still be a bit sore on how the two of you parted. But I highly doubt that he would let that one misdeed ruin an entire relationship."

Sighing, Thorin pinched the bride of his nose between his fingers. "Even so, Erebor is still in the process of great repairs. I could not leave now, in the midst of all the construction—"

He paused mid-sentence, too late to notice the sound of wood slicing through air before the block of firewood hit him square in the ear. Regally, the perpetrator stopped to stand beside Balin, and the king, still fuming, turned to see a very familiar, familial face.

"A simple greeting would have sufficed, sister," Thorin hissed.

"Good afternoon, Lady Dis," Balin said, smiling.

"Thorin Oakenshield," Dis huffed, hands on her hips. "I ought to cuff you with the blunt edge of my axe. Your precious city will get along _fine_ without you for a day, I should think! Balin and I will make very capable regents in your absence. In fact, there may not be any reason for you to return at all."

"Of that I have no doubt," Thorin snorted. "Perhaps I am afraid that if I leave, my sister will usurp the throne right out from under me."

His sister smirked, the same mischievous curl of lips that both her children had inherited. "And I have a feeling you wouldn't mind, if this 'Mister Boggins' my sons have told me so much about was there to compensate for your loss."

"Baggins," he automatically corrected. How did Kili _always_ make that mistake?

Dis preened triumphantly, as if that simple amendment proved her right. "My point, dear brother, is that you could spare a few months to find your beloved and beg his forgiveness. There might even be time for you to woo him into becoming your consort."

It was an appealing idea, to tell the truth. On the chance that Bilbo _did_ forgive him and reconcile their relationship, would it be such a far cry for him to accept Thorin's proposal? Could he convince Bilbo to leave his comfortable hearth again, for good this time? Certainly, it was possible, if the hobbit's fondness for Erebor and the dwarves who inhabited it had not waned through time and distance.

"If you both agree to keep watch over the kingdom in my stead, I trust you to see it done," he said at last, nodding decisively. "I shall go."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In some way or another, Thorin's quest to retrieve his beloved burglar went from being a company of one dwarf to a company of six.

Kili and Fili invited themselves, of course, and then took it upon themselves to extend the same invitation to young Ori. The scribe accepted, after plenty of arguing with his brothers, who both uneasy about having Ori travel across the country without either of them by his side. It ended when the young dwarf very vehemently declared that he was an adult who could make his own decisions, thank you much, and if he wanted to go with his friends to visit Mister Baggins, he would do it, permission or no!

Flabbergasted by the outburst, Dori and Nori were forced to _grudgingly_ coming to terms with the fact that there little brother wasn't so little anymore, and had certainly proved that he had the right to make his own decisions. Ultimately, they did give their blessing (for which Ori was grateful, despite his earlier declaration).

Thorin declined taking an entourage of guards along, convinced it would scare the inhabitants of Hobbiton half to death, so Balin insisted that Dwalin accompany he and the princes on their journey, since he was head of the royal guard, and a friend to boot. Last but not least was Bofur, who had undoubtedly become Bilbo's closest companion during their travels; there was no chance of going back to Bag End without the good-spirited toymaker in tow.

"Mind your manners, now, the both of you. I'll not have you scaring the poor creature off before I have the chance to meet him," Dis said to the boys on the day of their departure, straightening Kili's cloak and ensuing that Fili's braids were tied tight, much to her eldest son's embarrassment.

"Don't worry, Mum. Master Boggins will be delighted to see us again, I'm sure of it!" said Kili cheerfully.

"Provided you could say his name correctly," Fili snorted.

"How are you feeling, lad?" questioned Thorin. He was still wary about Fili joining them, worried that his nephew might relapse into a coma if pushed too hard.

His heir smiled brightly. "Fair as can be. I am in perfect shape to travel. Right, Mister Oin?"

"So long as you don't overdo it," Oin nodded. "Try not to go tumbling off any mountains."

"You will look after each other," said Dis to her sons; it was not a question, but a demand. "Your uncle, too."

"I don't need looking after," Thorin asserted, which his sister paid no attention to. Instead, she warned him that if either of her sons returned from _this_ journey harmed, maimed, stabbed or otherwise injured, she would make good on that promise to usurp the throne. And she wasn't the only concerned relative warning the older dwarves to look after their younger family members.

"You had best look after my brother." Nori's grin showed far too many teeth, the thief's gaze was aimed at the Dwalin's second sword. "Or else you might lose something valuable to you."

_"Nori,"_ Ori whined at his brother's crudeness, watching as the warrior's aloof expression morphed into momentary aghast. Losing its sharp edges, Nori's grin faded, replaced by a pensive frown, and a meaningful silence passed between Dwalin and the thief. Ori took this as his cue to leave them alone and say goodbye to Dori.

Bofur butted heads with both Bifur and Bombur, assuring them that this trip should be much less eventful than their last, what with the significant decline of goblins and orcs lurking in Misty Mountains. He laughingly told Bombur to take of that girl of his from the royal kitchens, and for Bifur to write and keep him updated on the toy business while he was away.

As the last of the sun's rays stretched into the sky, it was time for them to take their leave. The six dwarves mounted their ponies and called out their last farewells before riding beyond the safety of the wall and into the West. They sang and joked and were filled with merry musings about the adventure ahead; even Thorin, who rode without much direction, lost in his own thoughts.

The Shire was far from where he stood now, yes, but it was a distance he had previously crossed and conquered in the pursuit of his dream. Today, he left in pursuit of his heart, in the hopes of making it whole once more. _Soon,_ the dwarf king sighed, feeling a pleasant breeze whip across his cheek; and wondered if Bilbo, tucked within his comfortable hobbit hole, was feeling the same wind, and thinking of Thorin, too.


	4. Forget Me Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discoveries are made, history is repeated, and hope is given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Hope you had a lovely Easter weekend. Thank you again for all the lovely favorites, reviews, and follows! Enjoy this next chapter, which I hope I did justice!
> 
> Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkein and Peter Jackson own; I do not.

"Bilbo Baggins, open your door this instant! I know you're hiding in there!" The hobbit in question startled at the sound of his dreaded cousin—Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, the harbinger of doom herself—pounding at his door. Bilbo cussed under his breath, abandoning his recently purchased book on the armchair he'd been occupying. Stealthily, he moved into the hallway, where the lighting was poor and the shadows more obscure.

It was a habit he and his cousin-in-law had fallen into in the weeks following his return; she would arrive at his door, Bilbo would hide, and whoever gave in first would be the victor. Sometimes, Lobelia lost her patience and left before Bilbo's pity for his innocent neighbors (who were subjected to Lobelia's voluminous ranting while their game went on) brought him out of hiding; sometimes, it was the other way around.

Bilbo had been quite intent on spending his day curled up by the hearth, with only a cup of tea and a book of elvish poems to keep him company. Reluctant to lose today's round of hide-or-be-found, he stood as still as possible, curbing the urge to fidget by stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Where low and behold was his little golden ring. Bilbo frowned, wondering how the darned trinket had found its way in there. Although, now that he thought about it, when had he seen the ring last? In the midst of reclaiming what items he'd lost at the auction and putting his household back in order, Bilbo had forgotten about the puzzling piece of jewelry. Come to think of it, he had never even tried the ring on!

Frivolously, Bilbo slipped it onto his finger, if only to give it a try. Wearing it didn't give him any feelings of magnificence or grandeur, of course; however, it was a rather nice fit.

"Bilbo!" Lobelia screeched, making him jump. Deep in his musings, he had forgotten about the mad woman knocking at his door. "Enough of this game! Stop lurking in your hallway and greet your guest like a proper gentlehobbit!"

Cursing the woman's keen senses, Bilbo sighed, resigning himself to his cousin-in-law's company. Without preamble, he threw open the front door, and braced himself for a verbal onslaught—

—that never came.

Instead, Lobelia squawked in shock. "Oh! Now what sort of parlor trick is this?"

Bilbo blinked. He was standing right in front of her, yet she was looking all about, searching for someone to welcome her inside. Wisely, he didn't say a word.

"Hello?" she demanded, jabbing her umbrella through the doorway; Bilbo managed to avoid a pointy stab to the stomach, almost swerving into his coatrack in the process. Her umbrella finding nothing but empty air, Lobelia huffed, clearly more annoyed than she had been when she first arrived.

"Confound it, Bilbo Baggins, vanishing into thin air! If this is a fancy new trick of yours, I am not amused!" she bristled. "And if you have brought more madness to this town, mark my words, you will regret it!"

And with that, Lobelia slammed the green door shut with a force that rattled the trinkets sitting atop his mantel, proper lady that she was. Only when he heard her footsteps disappear past the gate did Bilbo began to wonder what on Middle Earth had just occurred. Was Lobelia going blind? No, the woman was sharp as a tack, unfortunately. Was she going mad? Again, unlikely. Supposedly, Bilbo was the only mad hobbit in Hobbiton these days.

So how, then, had she completely missed his presence?

And then he remembered the ring still wrapped around his finger.

Uncertainly, Bilbo stepped outside, soaking in the sweet smell of herbs and flowers. On instinct, his eyes trailed towards the garden. Young Hamfast Gamgee was tending to it, elbow deep in soil and sweating in the afternoon sun. Bilbo was about to invite the lad in for a cool glass of water for all his hard work, when the other hobbit looked up, as if sensing the eyes on him. Looked right _through_ Bilbo, he did, before refocusing on the flowers.

Bilbo decided to put the final stage of his experiment into action, removing the ring from his finger. There was no change in the world from his perspective. After a moment, however, Hamfast's gaze roved towards him again, only to startle when he saw his employer.

"Oh, Mister Baggins! I didn't see you there," he apologized.

"Hello, Hamfast. Lovely job with the garden," Bilbo praised absently, turning to go back inside. Once the door was shut behind him, Bilbo leaned against it, knees weak with glee. If anyone could see how hard Mister Baggins of Bag End was chuckling, seemingly at nothing, there would be no doubt that he was in fact the maddest hobbit of the Shire.

But Bilbo could care less what the neighbors said. For his new accessory, no matter how strange, now provided him with the perfect escape whenever unwanted visitors like Lobelia came knocking. All he had to do was slip it on, and _poof!_ He could disappear and enjoy as many peaceful afternoons as he pleased. Not even his grievously damaged reputation could spoil that thought.

Laughing, Bilbo strolled into the kitchen for a snack, though not before tucking the ring securely into his waistcoat pocket.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Little did Bilbo know that when Lobelia spoke of madness, she meant the company of dwarves currently passing through Hobbiton.

Fili and Kili were making quite the spectacle of themselves, lagging behind to wave flirtatiously at the passing lasses and ruffle the heads of curious children, who followed their group with unabashed awe. Some of the older hobbits were less enthused by their presence, shooting dirty looks their way, as if they were somehow disturbing the peace. But Dwalin glared back at each and every one, so nobody commented on the company of dwarves making their way toward Bag Shot Row, however peculiar the sight was.

"You know, we never got to admire the Shire last we were here," Bofur remarked whimsically. "Quite a beautiful place, actually."

Indeed, the rolling green hills of the kindly West were a welcome reprieve from the rough terrain of the Misty Mountains. Nothing could compare to the sight of the house under the hill up ahead, though, not even the glorious mountain range or the halls of Rivendell.

"Finally!" moaned Fili, whose keen sight was the first to spot Bag End. To his right, Kili let out a great whoop of joy, bringing both his brother and Ori in for a one-armed embrace.

"Is it really okay that we're popping in unannounced?" asked the jostled scribe.

"Wouldn't be the first time," Dwalin grunted, to which Bofur laughed.

The door had faded in color and looked to be in dire need of a coat of paint, yet the mark of a thief was still carved into it, plain for all to see. Thorin traced the lines of it with a calloused thumb, giving his racing heart a moment to gather itself. With more confidence than he truly felt, he raised his hand to knock, ready for whatever reaction he might receive—

"Stop where you are!"

Beside of Thorin, Dwalin's hand instinctively flew to his axe, ever the vigilant guard. There was no need for arms, because they all recognized that great, booming tone.

_Gandalf?_

The wizard was barreling down Bag Shot Row most unsophisticatedly, muttering various words in languages unknown to dwarves under his breath. "Of all the stubborn quests to set out on... When I told you of Bilbo's survival, I never thought you would come rushing here within a year's time! Save me from the impulsiveness of dwarves!"

"Could we finish this conversation inside?" Kili huffed impatiently. Silently, Thorin agreed, and went to knock.

"Don't you dare," snapped Gandalf. "You will listen to my words before you open that door, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror!"

Thorin's eyes narrowed challengingly. He did not come all this way simply for Gandalf the Grey to prevent him from attaining his heart's desire. Not without good reason. "And why should I?"

"Because who lies beyond it isn't who you seek," Gandalf intoned ominously. "The Bilbo Baggins who knew you is gone."

Outraged, Bofur cried, "But you said—"

"Physically, our hobbit is well," the wizard hastened to add. "It is his mind, my dear dwarrows, that has suffered real damage."

"Enough cryptic circles," Dwalin growled in aggravation. "Spit it out already!"

"Bilbo has no memory of the time he spent in your company," Gandalf complied, making Thorin wish he had kept his mouth shut. Ignorance was bliss, after all.

In the wake of this revelation, the dwarves felt their spirits sink. "Explain," the king demanded hoarsely.

"During the battle, Bilbo received a nasty blow to the head, and it made him forget." Gandalf's stern expression crumpled into sadness. "When he awoke in Rivendell, he had no memory of who I was, let alone the journey he took to help reclaim your home."

"Surely you jest, Gandalf," Fili tried hopefully. "One cannot simply forget so much...can they?"

Regrettably, Gandalf had no chance to reply before a sudden noise diverted all their attention back to the entrance of Bag End. The circular door had creaked open, revealing the hobbit very near and dear to their hearts: Bilbo Baggins.

Thorin's heart warmed at the sight. His hobbit looked exactly the same as he did when they'd parted, from the tips of his furry toes to the top of his curly head. Except that his face, which should have been filled with joy or relief or even anger at his past mistreatment, now depicted an eerie blankness. In fact, their burglar looked downright cautious. Upon meeting their stares, however, Bilbo managed a smile.

"Oh, excuse me! You gave me a fright, is all, as I'm not accustomed to a company of dwarves inhabiting my doorway!" he said with a small, nervous chuckle. "But where are my manners? I am Bilbo Baggins, pleased to make your acquaintance."

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Thorin's previously warmed heart went cold and plummeted into the pit of his stomach. He hadn't wanted to believe Gandalf's words, yet here stood the proof, peering at him as though he'd never laid eyes on Thorin before.

"Ah, Gandalf!" exclaimed Bilbo, looking quite relieved to see the wizard lingering at the back of their company. "Are these fellows friends of yours?"

"Yes, they are," Gandalf confirmed succinctly. "Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce..."

But without further prompting, Dwalin stepped forward and gave a low bow, just as he had nearly two years ago.

"Dwalin, at your service."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bag End was roomier with seven less guests to clutter it, but the gathering was much less merry than it had been with thirteen. The silence they sat in was thicker than pea soup, and broken only by Gandalf's effortless string of speech and Bilbo's awkward attempts to diffuse the tension. Needless to say, they weren't very effective.

"We shared a journey together?" he surmised at the end of the wizard's lengthy elaboration. Doing his best not to squirm under their unnerving gazes, Bilbo looked at his guests in undisguised curiosity. "These must be the dwarves you mentioned in Rivendell, the ones I traveled with."

"Six of them, at least. The rest had to stay behind," Ori piped up.

"They wish you the best, Mister Baggins. We were all devastatingly relieved when we heard of your recovery," added Bofur sincerely.

"Yes, well, it is a bittersweet recovery, I'm afraid," Bilbo said gloomily, eyes bowed in guilt. "I do wish I had offered you a brighter welcome, or that I could honestly greet you as friends, just as you six deserve. As it is, though...I cannot. So, I am truly sorry you came all this way for nothing..."

"No!" exclaimed Kili, forceful enough to raise the hobbit's head. "I mean, don't be sorry. We meant to come, anyway, on account of your gold."

Bilbo jaw dropped open. "My _what?"_

"Aye," affirmed Dwalin, and without further adieu, hefted a medium-sized chest onto the hobbit's tea table. Bilbo squeaked at the sheer weight of it.

"You signed a contact with the rest of company, which promised you a full fourteenth share. We came both to see you and to honor that agreement," Ori went on.

"Oh!" gasped the hobbit, eyes widening to a comical size. "Um, that is an awful lot of treasure, I couldn't possibly accept so much—"

He yelped when a large, calloused hand lightly grasped his arm and drew his attention toward the dwarf Bilbo knew only as the king. Speaking for the first time since laying eyes on the hobbit again, Thorin said softly, "It would be a great favor to me if you took this gold as compensation for all you have done for me and my people, whether you remember your braves deeds or not."

Bilbo's face blushed hotly. "W-Well, in that case," he stuttered, searching for a way to hide his embarrassment. "E-Excuse me, will you? I should go and see to the dishes..."

With that, he fled to the kitchen. Thorin watched him go, mourning the loss of the brief contact they'd share.

In the wake of their host's departure, Fili muttered bleakly, "I cannot believe it. The Bilbo we knew is really... _gone."_

"He is not," negated Kili. "He's still our burglar, Fee, memory or no. Should we just give up and go home because we've hit a little bump in the road?"

"If we did that, we would have never made it to Erebor in the first place," Ori pointed out, siding with the youngest prince.

"What do you propose we do, then? Hit him over the head again and hope everything shifts back into place?" Dwalin came to the heir's defense.

"There will be no hitting of any kind," Gandalf rejected furiously. After that, the dwarves descended into a mess of heated words and calm agreements, all of them talking over each other in effort to have their opinions voiced.

"No, but we could try—"

"—and what if it doesn't work?"

"Oi, does anyone hear that?" said Bofur suddenly. Nobody listened.

"—Kee, I want him back as much as you—"

"—shouldn't let him suffer, it isn't right—"

"—well, what about uncle? You know how he feels—"

"Quiet, all of you! I hear—"

"—maybe we should ask Mister Baggins—"

"—is there a point in even trying?"

"I said, _shut your mouths!"_ Bofur seethed, finally allowing the toymaker to get a word in edgewise. In lieu of speaking, he pressed a finger to his lips and gestured to the room where their host current resided. _"Listen."_

And in the utter silence that followed, the rest of them heard it, too. From somewhere within the kitchen, there was the soft clatter of china plates being stacked into piles, the fluid sound of sloshing water, and the scrape of a rag scrubbing against dishware. Above this harmony, however, another noise rose; a gentle humming, the kind one sang without even realizing. Bilbo had hummed a lot during their journey, usually while doing menial tasks, but this was not a song of the Shire. No, Thorin knew this tune as well as he knew his own sword.

"The song of the Lonely Mountain," Fili breathed. "He remembers it."

"Then there is still hope," said Ori optimistically.

"Perhaps," conceded Gandalf, thoughtfully. "Lord Elrond said that his recollections might not be lost forever. Rather, the blow to his head shoved them into the dark, forgotten recesses of his mind. In theory, they could be recovered. Unfortunately, I know neither how long or painful this process could be. Furthermore, you have to ask yourselves if you are willing to go through with it. Because once it starts, there will be no stopping the memories from returning. And you know as well as anyone, Thorin Oakenshield, that not all of those memories are pleasant."

_"Take him, if you wish him to live; and no friendship of mine goes with him."_

Cringing, Thorin nodded.

"Knowing this, do you still wish for him to remember?" the wizard continued.

"Yes," the king replied, without hesitation. If there was even a slight chance of bringing their burglar back, they would do their best to see it done. The rest of his fellows appeared to concur. "We must try. We owe him that much."

Gandalf nodded neutrally. "So be it."

Bilbo rejoined them long enough to see the wizard off, and proceeded to allocate his guest bedrooms. Even the youngest of their company were weary from their travels and went to their rooms without question. Coincidentally, Thorin received the same one he had during his first night at Bag End, and a small part of him wondered if the hobbit subconsciously knew that. His eyes lingered on the door to Bilbo's room, wishing he could pull it aside and slip in beside that soft, warm body.

Alas, no invitation came, so he retired to his own room, where Thorin feared he would find no rest. But the memory of Bilbo's gentle rendition of the Lonely Mountain Song eventually soothed him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> *This line was borrowed directly from the book.
> 
> So...was this good? Bad? Not sure yet? I would love to know what you all thought! Feedback is very much appreciated.


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